The Blue Diamond Affair
by TheApprehensiveArtist
Summary: After a client brings a suspicious package to 221 B, Sherlock and John are sent on an adventure of a lifetime. However, finding a rare piece of history that's been missing for years is likely to draw some unwanted attention. Based on the International Incident known as the "Blue Diamond Affair".
1. The Client

It had been a long day at the clinic. Flu season was terrible this year. Everyone seemed to have it and the flu did not discriminate against its victims. Young and old, black and white - Everyone. Had. The. Flu.

John was especially careful during this season. He'd gotten his flu shot; he wore facemasks all day, and washed his hands constantly. He'd always shower whenever he got home so that he didn't spread any germs to Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson and he implored both of them to get their flu shots as well. Mrs. Hudson had obliged willingly, but Sherlock took a little more convincing. Eventually, John was able to shove him into a pharmacy one day under the guise of needing to refill his medical kit at home. But, as it turns out, he insisted that Sherlock got his flu shot and he did.

Thankfully, neither man at this point had come down with the illness.

But today, John was feeling more tired than usual. He slowly made his way up the stairs to 221 B and quietly prayed to the powers that be that Sherlock wouldn't get a case tonight and he could sleep. He opened the door, hung up his coat and took off his shoes and entered the kitchen to make some tea and sort out dinner. He was surprised that he didn't notice Sherlock playing his violin or conducting some vile experiment, but for once, he really didn't mind.

He settled on eating some of Mrs. Hudson's fresh tomato soup she'd made for them and a grilled cheese sandwich. It didn't take long to heat everything up and before he knew it, John was relaxing in front of the telly, watching the evening news and enjoying a hot meal.

Wordlessly, Sherlock entered the living room, apparently from his bedroom, and sat at his desk and opened his laptop, typing away at his blog. Neither man spoke to the other, content to just be sharing the space. After John's program finished, he got up and washed and put away his dishes and joined Sherlock once again in the living room.

"How was your day?" John asked, sitting down in his chair.

"Fine." Sherlock responded.

John rolled his eyes. Getting Sherlock to talk about his day was like trying to get a teenager to talk about their day at school.

"What did you do all day?" John retorted, urging Sherlock to respond with a more specific answer.

"Not much. Made some tea, updated my blog…" his voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed at his screen.

"I see." Said John. "That's it?"

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together and he turned and looked at John with a confused expression.

"That's it?!" he repeated. "I've been running ragged with cases lately, finally have a day off, and you sit there and criticize me saying 'that's it'?"

John sighed and put his hands up in surrender. "No. That's not what I meant by that. I just wanted to know if you solved any cases or went anywhere while I was at work. I'm glad you took some time to relax today." John sat back in his chair and gripped the armrests.

Sherlock's intense gaze stayed locked onto John for another few moments before he looked back at his computer screen.

"I wasn't feeling well today." Sherlock mumbled.

John's ears perked up instantly and he leaned forward in his chair, "Sorry, did you just say you weren't feeling well? What's wrong?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. He again, looked over at John and responded, "Just feeling tired and had a runny nose." John noticed that Sherlock's voice did sound a bit like he was stuffed up. Sherlock sniffed and reached for a tissue on his desk and blew his nose.

"Any body aches? Fever? Headache? Did you take any medicine?"

"No, no, no. I don't have the flu. I'm sure it's just a minor cold. I've been taking vitamin C, staying hydrated, and resting. It'll pass." Sherlock insisted.

John was just about to spew off another slew of questions when their doorbell rang.

He groaned and dropped his head, looking at the floor. Sherlock had gone to the window to see whom Mrs. Hudson was letting in.

"Client?" asked John.

"Client." Sherlock affirmed with another sniff.

Mrs. Hudson pointed the potential client up to 221 B. Sherlock answered the door with a flourish of his dressing gown as John set up the chair for the client to sit in.

"Good evening." Sherlock greeted the man with a fake smile and directed him towards the seat in the center of the living room. His eyes were quickly roving over the young man who had just answered the flat.

John sat in his usual armchair and eyed up the man himself. To John, the man had dark skin and seemed to be between 25 and 30. He was clearly uncomfortable, wringing his hands over and over again in his lap. He was well dressed, maybe because he wanted to make a good first impression or was just coming from work. Perhaps he worked in the city. John didn't get much further with his deductions before Sherlock sat in his chair and said,

"So, what brings you to my flat this evening mister…"

"N-Nielson. But please, call me Dan." The man stuttered his answer out.

Sherlock gave the man a look that said, "Get on with it."

"Right." Started Dan, "Well, you see I'm a writer for a magazine in the city. I take the subway to work every day. I don't talk to no one. I just put my ear buds in and my hood up and I'm ignored. But you see, yesterday I had a stressful meeting with my publisher. But that's not important…." He scratched his head and he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"It's what happened after work. You see, I was on my way home. I had just gotten off the train, and this man, he looked Middle Eastern to me, bumped into me. He was running as fast as he could and a few seconds after he bumped into me a few more men came chasing after him. I didn't think much of it. Maybe they were undercover police going after a criminal?

Anyways, when I got home I took off my jacket and this small, wrapped package fell out of my jacket pocket. It must have been placed there by the man who was being chased when he bumped into me."

The man pulled a small wrapped box from his pocket and placed it on the small table next to him.

"And why didn't you take it straight to the police?" asked John.

"Well, I didn't want them to think I was somehow involved. I have a record… Theft. I stole all sorts of things when I was a kid. I even served time for it. But I've changed my ways. I've got a good job. I'm starting to talk to a nice girl. I don't want anything to screw it up now. So I held on to this package for a day, trying to figure out what I should do with it. I thought about throwing it in the Thames. But ultimately, I decided to bring it here." The man was impassioned in his defense for himself, his apprehension all but gone away.

"And you haven't opened the package?" Sherlock asked.

"No sir." Replied Dan.

Sherlock reached out and Dan placed the small package in his hand. As he was just reaching to open it, John stopped him.

"Wait." He'd said. Sherlock froze and looked up at him. "What if there's something dangerous in there? A small bomb or a drug that could make us sick."

Sherlock felt the weight of the package in his hand and gave it a tiny shake. Whatever it was, it felt like an object that could roll a bit, and it was indeed small. He seriously doubted that this object was a bomb.

"Well, I'll just have to take my chances." He responded.

As if opening a fragile package on Christmas day, Sherlock delicately opened the brown paper packaging to reveal a small white box. He opened the lid to the box and inside a blue, glittering object shone back at him.

"What is it?" Dan asked.

John himself was trying to peer over the box's lid so that he could see for himself.

Sherlock smiled. "A blue diamond."

"Sorry, what?" Dan replied.

Snapping the lid shut to the box, Sherlock looked at Dan and exclaimed, "The game, Mr. Nielson, is on!"


	2. Chaos

"The game, Mr. Nielson, is on!"

As soon as the words left Sherlock's lips, a tiny, shaky red dot appeared on the side of Dan's head. Before Sherlock could shout any warning, the shot had been fired through their window and Mr. Nielson was lying dead in his chair.

John had shouted, "Get down!" and he and Sherlock dove onto the floor of 221 B. More shots rang out as the apparent sniper continued firing on the flat. John, ever the faithful soldier, began the hunt for his own gun. He crawled around to Sherlock's side table drawer and opened it to reveal his trusty weapon. Wood splintered and glass shattered as more bullets hit above and around him. He put the gun in the back of his pants and moved to hide behind his armchair.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had his own agenda. Sherlock had rolled close to the fireplace and shifted one of the stones to hide the package with the blue diamond in it. He quickly shifted the stone back into place and attempted to crawl back to his chair. However, just as he was about to go back to his chair, the feeling of hot metal flew across the right side of his scalp. He ducked down and instinctively covered his head while trying to move closer to his chair to hide. Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind.

"John!" he shouted.

John had somehow managed to make it behind his own armchair and was hiding behind it when Sherlock called out to him.

"You alright?!" John shouted back, carefully trying to peek around his chair and get a look at Sherlock.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock shouted, "Mrs. Hudson!"

That was all he needed to say because John immediately crawled to the kitchen and made it to the landing. The bullets had ceased firing at that moment, and John took the opportunity to run downstairs and find Mrs. Hudson. Gun drawn, he broke down Mrs. Hudson's door and found her on the floor hiding behind her sofa.

John went to her and tried pulling her to her feet. She was trembling and trying not to panic.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh John! What's happening?" she cried as John pulled her up and moved her to the cleaning closet.

"I don't know, Mrs. Hudson. But I need you to hide in this closet until we figure it out." Said John, gently pushing her to crouch in the tiny closet. "I'm going to lock you in here, ok? But I promise I will let you out when this is all over." He said.

Mrs. Hudson, being the saint that she is, silently nodded and did as she was told, putting her faith in the good doctor. John locked the door and then stood behind the wall, opposite the closet. He hoped that Sherlock had enough sense to hide himself or call the police.

And then, he waited.

Within a few moments, chaos ensued. The front door to 221 B was opened and John could hear the sound of someone sneaking around the flat. He heard him enter Mrs. Hudson's flat. If one had taken John's pulse or blood pressure in that moment, they would have found that he was perfectly calm, in his element. He'd crouched down behind the sofa so as not to be seen when the man entered the room.

John watched as the mystery man slowly rounded the corner to the living room where John was hiding. He was well built and wearing a ski mask, making it difficult for John to collect any identifiable information about him. The man took note of the closet and stepped closer to it, with his own pistol drawn. He reached out and put his hand on the doorknob.

"Don't make another move, or I'll blow your brains out." John commanded in a low voice.

John had made his way behind their attacker while he was approaching the closet door and now had his own gun aiming at the man's head.

The man froze. A tense moment of silence passed.

"Put down your weapon and back away from the closet." John ordered. When the man did not immediately comply, John shouted.

"DO IT. NOW!"

The man slowly kneeled down and placed his pistol on the floor and took two steps back with his hands up. Both men were now standing in the entryway to the living room.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of John's head stood up as he heard the familiar sound of a gun's safety being turned off behind his head. He sighed and began thinking of how to get out of his current situation.

Another masked man stood behind John with his own gun aiming towards John's head.

"Don't make another move, or I'll blow _your_ brains out," the man mocked. This man had a deep voice and a Middle Eastern accent.

John held his ground and didn't budge, still aiming his gun at the other man.

"Now, how about we do this my way. Give me your gun, and I kill you, or don't give me your gun and I kill you and the old lady in the closet."

"Or I could just kill both of you." John retorted.

"Please. You don't even have what it takes to kill the man in front of you."

Another tense moment of silence passed.

"I do. You see, I don't need this man. He's just a little muscle. All brawn and no brains." In an instant the Middle Eastern man behind John shot his weapon and killed the man that John was aiming his weapon at. He had killed his own man. John, despite his shock, took the moment to turn and face his main threat. Both men were now aiming their weapons at each other, still standing in that entryway to the living room.

"The only way you get out of this alive is if you tell me where it is." Said the Middle Eastern man.

"Where what is?" John asked, trying to bide his time.

"Don't play dumb with me!" the man shouted back, stepping closer to John.

"I don't have whatever you're looking for." John responded.

The man started to become visible angry. His hand started to shake and he started to shout, "Lies, LIES."

John believed in that moment that the man was going to shoot at any second. Just when he was about to pull the trigger on his own gun, another shot rang out from the front of Mrs. Hudson's flat and killed the masked man. The police shouted at John, "Drop your weapon, now!" He quickly and calmly obliged, exhaling and putting his hands up.

The next few minutes were messy and chaotic as the police tried to sort out what was happening. The police stormed and searched the whole flat, looking for any other masked men or weapons. John just did as he was told and waited for more instructions.

Lestrade entered Mrs. Hudson's apartment and addressed John.

"What the hell happened here?!" he asked.

"Wish I could tell you. Hang on." John responded. He walked over to the cleaning closet where a police officer was trying to unsuccessfully open the door without breaking it down when he realized someone was in there. John handed him the key and the police officer opened the door, letting Mrs. Hudson out.

"Is it over?" she cried.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. It's over. You were amazing, as always." John said, embracing her.

Looking at the policeman, he said, "Take her to the paramedics and get her checked out." The policeman nodded and guided Mrs. Hudson outside.

Lestrade looked at John, "Where's Sherlock?"

John turned back to Lestrade, "Somewhere upstairs, I guess. That's where I last saw him."

Just then, Sergeant Donovan entered Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Sir!" She motioned for Lestrade to come closer to her, just out of earshot of John.

"Yeah, Sally?" Lestrade said, walking over to her.

She whispered something in his ear and Lestrade ran a hand over his face. He walked back to John, who was standing there waiting for further instructions and watching the interaction take place.

"John, Sherlock's been taken to the hospital."

"What, why?" John asked.

"Gunshot wound." He hesitated before finishing, "To the head."


	3. Fine

John set his jaw and shook his head.

"No. Are they sure it was him? He was fine when I left him."

"They're sure. He had his ID on him in his wallet. Listen," Lestrade said, putting his and on John's shoulder. "They told me that he's alive. That's all I know. They found him and got him out of here right away."

"I need to go see him." John turned and started to walk away, but Lestrade caught his arm and stopped him.

"Now, hang on. We have to sort out what happened here first so-" he was cut off.

"You want to know what happened here, Greg? We were attacked. We were set up. A client came seeking advice about God knows what and a sniper started shooting at us, killing the client, and apparently almost killing Sherlock. I came down here to protect Mrs. Hudson. I didn't fire a shot. These two idiots," he pointed down at the masked men in the entryway, "shot themselves or were shot by one of your men. I will gladly leave a statement for you later, Greg. But this is Sherlock and I have to go because I'm his friend. I'm apparently one of the only one's he's got and this is what friends are supposed to do."

Without giving an opportunity for further debate, John pulled his arm from Greg's grasp and walked away from 221 B. He was angry, bitter, concerned, and honestly, he felt like he was going to be sick. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him exhausted. He got as far as the sidewalk in front of 221 B before Greg stopped him once more.

"John!" he called.

John rolled his eyes and turned, giving him a curt, "What?"

"Let's take my car. It'll be faster than a cab with the lights."

John's tension relaxed in his shoulders a bit. They both slid into a police car and rode to the hospital with lights and sirens blaring. The ride was quiet, save for those sirens. The two men didn't talk, both caught up in their own emotions and thoughts.

The two men arrived at the ER and went to the nurse's station to inquire about Sherlock. Greg showed his badge and explained he needed an update on the patient and to possibly see him for questioning if he was in any state to do that.

The nurse asked us to wait as she was going to page a doctor to come and talk with us and give us the information we needed.

Surprisingly, the doctor showed up within a few minutes. She was a short Asian woman, with straight black hair and a big smile. She was thin and carried a clipboard with her, that she kept pressed to her chest as she shook Greg and John's hands. John's hands rested on his hips after, bracing himself for whatever was coming.

"You're here to inquire about Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes." Responded Greg, "How is he?"

Looking down at her clipboard, she spoke quickly, "The patient was brought in to the E R this evening with an apparent gunshot wound to the head. After we were able to clear away most of the blood, we were able to sort out that the bullet actually just grazed the right side of the patient's head above his ear." She gestured with her right hand where the graze would be on her head.

"We were able to clean him up and give him blood to replace what he's lost and we're in the process of giving him stitches, right now. The patient most likely has a concussion. After we get him stitched up we're going to do a more thorough examination. He threw up once and has been complaining about nausea and obviously, a headache. All in all, he's going to make a full recovery. He's going to be ok."

Tears of relief sprang into John's eyes as he turned and exhaled. He ran a hand over his face, trying to pull himself together. A stray tear made its way down his cheek and he momentarily put his hands on his knees as he took deep breaths to try to calm himself. _Too close,_ he thought.

A comforting hand came to rest on his back, soothingly rubbing it as John stayed hunched over for a few seconds. He straightened himself once more and wiped his eyes. Greg pulled his hand away.

"Can we see him?" John asked.

"Yes. Let me make sure they're finished with the stitches. He's in room 305."

The doctor headed towards room 305, but before Lestrade let John follow, he stopped him and asked him,

"You ok?"

"I thought we'd lost him." Was all John said, and he walked around Greg and followed the doctor to Sherlock's room.

The doctor allowed John and Greg to enter Sherlock's room and John heaved a sigh of relief before walking in. He was surprised to see that Sherlock wasn't fussing or giving anyone a hard time. In fact, a doctor was in just finishing up his stitches and Sherlock was sitting up as still as a statue as the doctor worked. His eyes were shut and he appeared intensely focused and calm as the doctor finished up.

The doctor wordlessly left only a moment or two later and Sherlock, in his patient's gown, sat back against the pillows and kept his eyes shut.

"Shut up." He ordered.

John smirked. Lestrade responded with, "We didn't even – " but was interrupted with a hasty,

"You were worrying. It's annoying."

John crossed his arms and opted to stand at the end of Sherlock's bed while Greg stood off to the right with his hands in his pockets.

"How're you feeling?" John asked.

"I'm fine." Sherlock responded with a tone of annoyance.

"Yeah, says the guy who got shot in the head." John mumbled.

Sherlock's eyes whipped open and he glared at John.

"I did not get shot in the head. The bullet merely grazed my scalp. If the sniper had shot me in the head, I'd be dead, like Mr. Nielson. Other than making me look absolutely ridiculous with this haircut, I'm fine."

Sherlock pointed to where the doctors had to shave away bits of his curls to give space for the stitches. He had about eight stitches above his right ear. John didn't think it looked so bad. Besides, he thought, his other curls did a good job of hiding the stitches and shaved area.

"Really? Because the doctor said that you threw up on the way here. You know you probably have a concussion and you had a headache and- " John was really started to get heated up, but he couldn't exactly place why.

Sherlock interrupted him, "I KNOW John, I got shot in the head today." Sherlock smirked at John and giggled a little. John wanted to be mad at him, he really did. But he couldn't help but feel that the levity was needed. Sherlock was giving him a hard time, which meant that he really was ok. He was here, he was alive, and they were going to get to the bottom of this, together.

After the giggling ceased, Sherlock's smile disappeared and instead, his stoic, serious expression returned to his face. He looked from Greg to John.

"Now, let's get down to business."


	4. The Diamond

Sherlock picked up his cell phone and handed it to John. It was unlocked and open to a website about a jewel heist known internationally as "The Blue Diamond Affair".

John spent a few minutes reading the article.

A 50-carat diamond was among the riches of a Saudi prince and remained in a locked safe on the second story of his palace. A greedy, jealous gardener broke into the palace, climbing through a second story window. He used a screwdriver to break into the locked safe and stole countless precious gems and jewels, including an almost flawless 50-carat rare, blue diamond. He managed to send the stolen jewels back to his family in Thailand, where he soon returned.

Of course, once the Saudi prince noticed that his riches were missing, he demanded an investigation and soon, the gardener was found out. Unfortunately, the gardener had sold the jewels to a local jeweler, but he was found, too. The gardener was arrested and the jewels were returned, or so they thought.

Upon further investigation, the jewels returned to Saudi Arabia were deemed fake, and the blue diamond was not among the jewels that were returned. Rumors flew. The Saudis believed that they had seen wives of Thai officials wearing jewelry that closely resembled the jewels that had been stolen from the prince. So, the prince sent three diplomats and a businessman, all with ties to the royal family, to Thailand to investigate.

To the Saudi's horror, the three diplomats were assassinated and the businessman disappeared. The Saudi's immediately called foul play and blamed corruption within the Thai government for the mysterious assassination of the diplomats and disappearance of the businessman. In response, the Saudi government recalled its ambassador to Thailand, deported hundreds of thousands of Thai workers, and cut off all trade with the country.

The jeweler, who had bought the stolen goods from the gardener initially, had been kidnapped and killed along with his wife and son. The detective that was in charge of investigating the heist was eventually charged with those killings, furthering the suspicions that the Thai government was somehow involved.

As of 2016, when the article John was reading was published, the assassinations and disappearance of the diplomats and businessman were still unresolved and the blue diamond's location was still unknown.

John finished reading and handed the phone to Greg, who took a few minutes to read through as well. When he finished, he handed the phone back to Sherlock and started asking questions.

"So, walk me through this. How does this relate to what happened in your flat today?" Greg asked, hands on his hips.

"Our client brought us a wrapped package that, upon opening, revealed a large blue diamond that I believe is the diamond that was mentioned in this article." Sherlock responded. He was sitting back, propped against his pillows, eyes closed and speaking low.

"And where is this diamond now?" said Greg.

Sherlock responded with one word: "Hidden."

Greg rolled his eyes. "So, how did your client, this Dan Nielson, how'd he get a hold of it?"

"If his story is to be believed it was planted on him and he did not know what was in the package prior to arriving on my doorstep. I can only assume that our attackers are treasure hunters, people trying to get a hold of this diamond however they can in order to sell it, or cut it into smaller bits of jewelry, all to be sold on the black market."

Greg sighed.

"So what do we do about it now?" John piped up. "We have it, so why don't we just, I don't know, give it to Mycroft and call it a day?"

Sherlock's eyes opened and he dramatically rolled them and scoffed.

"You really want to involve _Mycroft?"_ Sherlock asked, incredulous. "How would the British government explain the appearance of this missing diamond in their country?"

"By telling the truth?" John hesitated.

"The truth is we don't know how this diamond got into this county. We don't know who is after it, and we don't even know if Mycroft is somehow involved in this already. Furthermore, upon finding this missing diamond in the possession of British officials after years of it being missing, it will cast a shadow of doubt onto our government in a case that's already filled with suspicion. No. We are not involving my brother," he said with disdain, "not yet. We are going to gather more information, first."

"Sherlock, you almost died today because this stupid diamond was brought into our flat which, I might add, is still there. It's too dangerous to just have it hidden in our floorboards!" John protested.

"I have a plan, John, but you're not going to like it." Sherlock said.


	5. The Plan

**Author's note: I know it's been awhile since I've posted. It's a busy time of year. However, please note, this story takes place after Sherlock returns from his** **"hiatus," if you will, but it doesn't include Mary. Not that I don't like Mary, this is just how the story fits.**

John had caught on early that Sherlock kept his plan in his head to himself, so as not to jeopardize the outcome that he predicted. It was like a game of chess happening in his brain – he'd anticipate every outcome and plan a counter move for each one.

Sherlock did explain that at this point, they were just going to collect information.

"So, John, what do we need to know?" Sherlock asked, still sitting in the hospital bed. He was starting to look tired and pale, but John chose to play along with him because the faster they got through it, the faster Sherlock would agree to rest.

"Where the diamond has been all these years and how did it get into the country? Who's after it and why?"

"Yes. Precisely. So, right now, anyone who's been keeping an eye on that diamond believes that it is either in our flat, in police custody, or in the possession of one of our attackers. I agree, we shouldn't draw any attention to our flat. We are too vulnerable to attack and there are other factors that would create regrettable collateral damage should something go wrong."

"You mean, like Mrs. Hudson?" John asked.

"Yes."

"I suppose that's your way of saying you care about her." John remarked.

Sherlock just glared at him for a moment before continuing.

"I'm not sure that in our invented scenario that the police should have the diamond. Again, what would the police do with the diamond? Turn it over to someone like my brother, and that's no fun."

"Hang on," interrupted Greg, "I've been going along with this plan of yours so far because it seems almost logical to not turn this whole case over to the government, but this isn't a game, Sherlock. People have died over this. This is an international affair! It's not about what is fun. It's about doing the right thing and making sure this diamond is in the hands of people who know how to properly handle these sorts of things." Greg's impassioned speech ended with his hands planted firmly on his hips and looked decidedly unhappy with Sherlock.

"Oh, do relax Grant, I can assure you that I do know how to handle this situation. We are just going to collect data. We're going to tell the press that one of those men got away with an unknown object. John will explain to the press that a man came to the flat seeking advice on what to do with an unknown package he received when we were attacked. One of the men who attacked us got away with the suspicious package. We'll post a photo of one of the men who died and say he got away and give the people a number to call with information. Then, we'll see what we get. We'll tell them that I was injured severely, so as to give me an excuse to not take any new cases so I can focus on this one."

Greg paused looking perplexed. He took a breath and yelled, "It's GREG!"

John closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Sherlock," John responded, "This is insane! All this effort… why? We could just hand it to your brother and be done with it. If this is just about your damned curiosity, I'm not participating."

"Wise decision, Dr. Watson." Said a distinctive voice from behind. Mycroft Holmes, being the sneaky creature that he is, entered the room without drawing attention, listening to the conversation. Now, the impeccably clad man strode over, umbrella in hand, to his brother's bedside.

"Hello, brother dear. Got yourself in a bit of trouble, did you?" He carefully maneuvered his body in an attempt to see Sherlock's wound and stitches.

Surprisingly, Sherlock tilted his head in a way to help his brother see better, sighing dramatically and rolling his eyes.

"I'm fine, Mycroft." Sherlock practically groaned in response.

"Yes, well. That's not what the press thinks. I found out about your little incident from a news source rather than my own brother or my brother's friends." He glared around the room at Greg and John before continuing. "The way the press are telling the story, you are currently fighting for your life after your flat was attacked. I got here as soon as I could."

John rubbed his hand over his face. "Christ. I'm sorry, Mycroft. I should've called or texted you."

Mycroft responded with a raise of his eyebrows and a silent nod.

"Oh, please. It's not as if he actually cares. He was probably delighted to hear the news." Sherlock complained.

John glanced at Mycroft. For a second he could see hurt and sadness flicker in his eyes before he rolled his eyes and turned away from his brother, facing the window. While John knew Sherlock believed his brother didn't actually care about his wellbeing, John could see that the opposite was true. He wanted to look at Sherlock and say, "As ever, you see but you do not observe," but he held his tongue. This was a discussion for another time.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, what?" responded Mycroft.

"How much do you know?"

"I know about the diamond. It has been retrieved from your flat and is in possession of the British government now. There's hardly any need for you to be involved any further." Mycroft looked down at his feet, tapping his umbrella on the floor.

"However…?" pushed Sherlock.

"However…" Mycroft continued, "It appears that your skills as a former undercover agent may prove useful in this case."

"How so?" John asked. He didn't like the sound of where this was going.

"Well, I only mean to say that Sherlock could actually be an asset in this case. The government has the same questions as you do. Perhaps it would be wise if we worked together on this, for a time, anyways, just until we get some more information."

Greg finally piped up, "So what's your plan, then?"

"This goes deeper than I think either of us ever thought. Your enemy… James Moriarty, he had possession of the diamond for some time before he died. To my understanding, it wasn't an accident that this was planted on your alleged client. This is a ruse, Sherlock. This was a contingency plan. If Moriarty died, planting the diamond on you would make you a target."

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief.

"No. I'm not going back." Sherlock stated.

"Wait. What exactly are you getting at here, Mycroft?" John demanded.

Sherlock answered, "John, during my two year's away, while I was dismantling Moriarty's network, there was a particular group that I couldn't completely infiltrate. Mycroft is suggesting that I go back, with more resources and assistance this time, I'm assuming, to finish taking down this part of the network."

John felt his face grow red from anger and frustration.

"No. Mycroft… No. He just got back. Things have just returned to normal and you want him to go back?! Are you out of your mind?" He was very angry now, pointing his finger accusingly at Mycroft. "Have you actually seen the scars on your brother's back? Do you even know about the nightmares that he lives with every night? The nightmares that _I_ lived with for two years?! No." he shook his head, gritted his teeth and continued. "No. Mycroft, you find somebody else to do this. It's not going to be Sherlock."

John picked up his coat from where it lay on the back of a chair in the corner and he walked out of Sherlock's room to get some air. He could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as memories flooded his brain.


	6. A Study in Anger

John was so angry, so infuriated that he didn't realize that he had made it to the hospital rooftop, overlooking the city of London, until the crisp wind started nipping at his cheeks. Flustered, he paced around a bit before finally just sitting down on the roof away from the edges. He couldn't bear the thought of standing near the edge, couldn't bear the thought of seeing Sherlock standing on the rooftop again. John couldn't bear to see what he had thought were Sherlock's last views of his city. So he sat down, legs tucked underneath him, on the cold concrete and closed his eyes, almost as if in meditation.

He was not at peace at all, though. His thoughts raced and quite unforgivingly, the harsh memories of Sherlock's fall and disappearance for two years flooded over him. He was, once again, overwhelmed with unimaginable grief and righteous anger. Anger towards Moriarty, and Sherlock, and Mycroft, and himself for all of it.

His hands shook, his breaths came in huffs and hitches, sometimes tears welled up and ran down his face. John didn't know how long he sat up there, and quite honestly, he didn't care. Sometimes, it all hit him and it was just too much.

He remembered when Sherlock returned. 

He'd been on a date, and once interrupted he got so angry that he hit Sherlock, repeatedly. His date left after that, and Sherlock and John were kicked out of the restaurant. John was angry for being lied to and excluded for all that time and the anger didn't dissipate until, one day, he had finally decided to go and visit Sherlock and get some answers about what specifically had happened during his time away.

 _Bounding up the stairs of 221 B, John entered the flat and was surprised to find it just as it was before the fall – Sherlock's things were strewn about, Mrs. Hudson had dusted and cleaned up a bit, an empty teacup lay out on the desk. Sherlock wasn't in the living room or kitchen, but John heard the shower running, so he made himself at home. He put on the kettle and decided to wash some of the few dishes that were left in the sink. John remembered feeling like he had to do something productive while he waited for Sherlock, or else his anger might grow so strong again, that he would leave without talking to him._

 _Within a few minutes, the shower shut off and the bathroom door swung open. Sherlock emerged, wincing, with just a towel around his waist. John heard the door open and the wince and curiously glanced down the hall at Sherlock, who now stood frozen in the hallway under his intense scrutiny. John remembered now the sinking feeling in his stomach. He remembered feeling guilty for the abuse he inflicted on Sherlock at the restaurant._

 _Because, right then, he saw the scars and the wounds that still hadn't healed entirely that littered Sherlock's back and arms and chest._

 _And right then again, John felt anger. His anger was like a fire, and right then, the match had been lit._

 _Sherlock shuffled his feet and uncomfortably rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor._

 _John spoke, but his voice was raspy and came out as a whisper, "Who did that to you?"_

 _Sherlock didn't answer immediately, still looking lost and uncomfortable. Sherlock never looked lost. He never looked so vulnerable… and he was NEVER at a loss for words._

 _Gasoline was thrown on the fire, and John's anger flared up in response._

" _Who did that to you?" he said again, louder. His hands turned to fists._

" _John, it's nothing to worry about, I just –" Sherlock stammered to answer._

" _WHO DID THAT TO YOU?!" he'd shouted and slammed his fist on the table._

 _Sherlock flinched at the sound and John's anger burned even brighter, this time, consuming himself and his stupidity._

" _I'm sorry, I just –" John responded in a softer voice. He was overwhelmed with emotion. Tears welled up but he didn't let any slip out._

 _There was silence again._

" _It was in Serbia - the last of Moriarty's network. Mycroft got me out of that one."_

 _Sherlock's voice was steady, but his eyes stayed glued on the floor._

" _So you were tortured?" John asked. Of course he knew the answer. He didn't know why he asked._

"… _yes." was Sherlock's quiet response._

 _John had a lot of questions, but Sherlock was clearly getting cold and water was dripping down his legs and off his hair onto the floor._

" _Go get changed… then we'll talk." John said, turning to prepare two cups of tea._

 _Sherlock returned a few minutes later fully dressed in dress pants and a blue dress shirt. He took his place across from John in his chrome and black chair, crossed his legs, and let his arms dangle loosely from the armrests. John sat sipping his tea and finally, for the first time since he'd arrived, the two men made eye contact._

" _Why?" was all John asked._

" _Why what?"_

" _Why did you do all of this? Why did you pretend to die and then go on a suicide mission to take down Moriarty's network?"_

 _Sherlock shifted in his seat before responding._

" _Moriarty had a vast network and no doubt, contingency plans in place for if he were to die unexpectedly. That day, on the rooftop, he threatened you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson specifically. If I didn't die that day, or appear to, then he'd kill you all. If I hadn't gone undercover, I have no doubt that his partners would have come after you. I couldn't let that happen."_

 _More silence passed between the two men._

 _John replied, "So you're saying that you did this to protect me?"_

" _Yes."_

" _You couldn't tell me, though… why?"_

 _Sherlock sighed and leaned in._

" _I wanted to. But it had to be authentic. The world had to believe that I was dead. John, you're my closest friend in this world. You write about our adventures and if for one second it didn't look like you were upset about my death, it would've all come crashing down. You couldn't know the truth. Plus, you said it yourself. It was a suicide mission. No one, not even Mycroft believed that I was actually going to have a successful mission. I might as well have died jumping off of that roof. I didn't tell you because I wanted you to be safe."_

" _But you did it. You were successful." John responded._

" _At great cost." Sherlock leaned back in his chair and looked away._

" _What did they do to you?" John asked, unsure if he wanted to know._

 _Sherlock heaved in a breath and looked at the ceiling. He spoke, bitterly, and detached, so different from his usually engaged and fluent speech._

" _They drugged me with hallucinogens that made the beatings even more terrifying. I was kept in a windowless cell, so I had no hope of knowing how long I was there for. They'd leave the lights on constantly as well. They tied me up, so I could never sit. They'd leave me alone for long periods of time - days probably. I felt like I was losing my mind. I probably did. Because of the hallucinogens, I don't know how much of what I remember is real. The people who tortured me knew what they were doing. They'd beat me and then allow me to heal, before coming back and doing it again. They didn't want me to die until they got what they wanted and they knew how to torture me without killing me._

 _When Mycroft got to me, I had several broken ribs, deep lacerations all over my body, a dislocated right shoulder, my kidneys were failing, four fingers on my right hand, including my thumb had been broken, along with three on the left. My left ankle was shattered and I had a moderate concussion. I've lost a significant amount of vision in my right eye, as well."_

" _Jesus…" John muttered. "So you had to have been in a hospital for some time before even attempting to let me know you were alive."_

 _Sherlock nodded._

 _John was tempted to ask more questions, but he felt like Sherlock had already revealed a great deal and that the rest was going to have to wait. Or, he realized, it may never be talked about again. Either way, John wasn't going to push him any more._

" _I'm sorry, Sherlock." He finally said._

" _What on Earth could you possibly have to apologize to me for?" Sherlock responded, incredulous._

" _I'm sorry that I hit you. I'm sorry that I ignored you up 'til now. I didn't know what you had been through, I just felt like I'd been left behind."_

" _I understand John, and there's no reason to apologize. I'm sorry for everything that I have done to you. I'm sorry that I let you grieve, that I did leave you out. I just wanted to protect you."_

 _Tears welled up in John's eyes. "I'm just glad you're here now."_


	7. The Warning

The wind nipped relentlessly at John's uncovered cheeks on the rooftop. He had calmed down significantly, the momentary anger and panic seeming to have passed. Standing in the center of the roof with his hands in his pocket, he looked out at the gray sky and heaved in a steadying breath.

While turning back to the door to go back in to the hospital, John softly cursed and rolled his eyes as Mycroft Holmes stepped out from behind the door. He took a few steps out onto the roof and rested his hands in front of him on his tall, black umbrella. Mycroft seemed to glance around the roof momentarily and then returned his gaze to John, not showing any signs of remorse or regret.

"My brother has reluctantly sent me after you, as the nurses wouldn't let him leave his room." Mycroft started.

"I'm not a child, Mycroft." John practically spat the words out.

"Quite so."

Moments of silence passed.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John asked, crossing his arms.

"John, I feel as though this whole thing has all started off on the wrong foot, if you will."

John huffed.

"I do not desire to send my brother back undercover. I know you probably think I am a cold hearted bastard, but I… worry about my brother."

Mycroft picked up his umbrella and began swinging it as he paced back and forth in front of John.

"But, he is a skilled agent. Between his mental acuity and physical agility, Sherlock is a dangerous man. You do realize, the life he lives with you is rather… domestic, for a person with his skill set? With his knowledge and connection to this particular assignment, there is no one else nearly as qualified to handle its demands. There are those in the government that know this and want him back out there, desperately."

John angrily shook his head, unbelieving.

Mycroft continued. "John, I am aware of the dangers an assignment like this presents to my brother and that it could prove fatal to him if he agrees to it."

"What's your point, Mycroft?" John uncrossed his arms, his hands in fists at his sides.

"I know he won't agree to it. And frankly, I'm grateful. But John, listen to me. I fear the incident at your flat was merely a warning for what is to come. Moriarty wanted you both to suffer and this is just the beginning."

"So he's sent people for us? He's coming for us?" John swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"I believe so. I am updating your security status. There will be cameras installed in your flat and security personnel will be with you at all times."

Mycroft looked up and out over the city, hair blowing in the wind.

"You don't think it's enough." Said John.

"No. But I don't know what more to do."

There was a long heavy pause before he continued. "Take care, Dr. Watson. Be safe."

With that, Mycroft walked back inside.

John stood for a moment longer on the roof before he followed him and went back to Sherlock's room.

 **Author's Note: Sorry for such a long hiatus from this story. The holidays were busy. I have found that I am struggling to figure out where I want this story to go. It initially had sprouted in my head and I thought it would figure itself out but I seem to have hit a writer's block. If anyone has any ideas as to how this story should proceed, I'd really appreciate some fresh ideas.**

 **Thanks!**


	8. I've Got a Bad Feeling About This

**Author's Note: Again, sorry for the long breaks between chapters. I slowly think I have a plan again for this story. It's coming together. Hang in there, everyone, there's more to come!**

 *************Several Weeks Later****************

It had been several weeks since Mr. Nielson had brought chaos to Baker Street. Sherlock's stitches had finally been removed and his hair was growing in nicely. He'd gone to his barber to get his hair cut so it looked more even, but it was a bit shorter now than how he typically wore it. His concussion symptoms went away after the first week or so, and he started taking new cases shortly thereafter.

Mycroft's surveillance was quite invasive and he believed that Sherlock didn't know that he was screening Sherlock's cases and calls through his blog and phone, but of course, Sherlock knew. John never heard the end of it. Mycroft was an interfering, overprotective prat, in Sherlock's opinion.

John knew that the surveillance was there for a reason. He didn't forget the fear that had gripped him when he thought he'd lost Sherlock again. While Mycroft might be a bit… overbearing, John was actually grateful. Despite that, John wasn't thrilled when bodyguards followed him to work or to the store, but he knew it was necessary – even after a few weeks. He knew that the moment they let their guard down was the moment that danger would strike again.

So, John wasn't surprised when he walked into 221 B one afternoon after work and found Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's chair. He wasn't even the slightest bit shocked to see Sherlock in his dressing gown curled up on the couch and facing away from his brother. The two were clearly in the midst of a stalemate.

John shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, grabbed the paper, and sat in his chair to begin reading it. He occasionally peered over the paper to observe the two brothers, but then would turn his attention back to the paper.

"Really, Sherlock, you're acting like a child." Mycroft finally commented.

Sherlock responded with a grunt.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes.

John had enough of it all.

Folding the paper down in front of him he looked between the two men and finally asked, "Alright, what's going on."

Sherlock shot straight up and began speaking so quickly that John felt like his brain was translating a foreign language.

"My brother is a completely incompetent _imbecile,_ who can't be trusted and only wishes to use people for his own personal advantage." Sherlock spat.

John smirked, "Tell me something I don't already know, Sherlock."

Mycroft scoffed and shook his head. Sherlock grinned wildly.

"I will not sit here and silently take this abuse." Mycroft added.

"Good, then leave." Sherlock said curtly.

"Alright, alright, _children,"_ John said derisively, "Mycroft, tell me why you're here. What's got Sherlock in such a strop?"

"I am here," Mycroft began haughtily, "because there's been an update in the blue diamond affair."

"Oh?" John asked, encouraging Mycroft to continue.

Mycroft stood and turned his back to John, looking out the window at London.

"It appears that the blue diamond has gone missing." He said.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, unbelieving.

"The blue diamond was taken to a secure location upon its discovery several weeks ago. I myself personally ensured that it was secure. It was locked in an underground vault with the highest level of security the country has to offer. I went to check up on things, as it were, at this particular location, only to find that our security has been significantly compromised. Somebody has stolen the blue diamond and replaced it with a fake."

"How did you know it was a – wait. Don't answer that." John said, putting his finger up to silence the man who was about to answer his question. Of course, it was an explanation as to how he knew the diamond was a fake and frankly, John couldn't care less about that. Instead he said,

"So, it must've been an inside job?" John asked.

"How astute of you, Dr. Watson. Looks like my brother is training you well." Mycroft quipped.

Sherlock glared.

"So, who came in contact with the diamond? Was there anyone that went in there that, I don't know, examined it? Cleaned it?" John asked.

"I can assure you, Dr. Watson, that this matter is being investigated quite thoroughly and all of the proper steps are being taken to find out who has taken the blue diamond." Mycroft responded.

"So then why are you here?" John asked. "Not that I'm trying to be rude it's just you don't normally come to visit your brother without some other… motive."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock snorted in laughter.

"I am here," said Mycroft, "to tell you that I believe with this diamond potentially out of Britain, that I believe the immediate threat to you has significantly diminished. Perhaps I was a touch… overly proactive in my security assignment for you. No one has made a threat to you."

"So you're telling me that you don't think this was a contingency plan to kill Sherlock after all?" John summarized.

"I certainly can't be sure of that. But, it appears that you are in no immediate, foreseeable danger. I am downgrading your security status. No more body guards. No more constant surveillance." Mycroft finished.

"And no more screening of my cases." Sherlock added bitterly.

"Indeed." Mycroft said.

"You don't want our help, then?" John asked.

"With what?" Mycroft retorted.

"Finding this diamond?"

"It's hardly a matter of concern for you any longer, Dr. Watson. It is an international affair. Dealing with foreign dignitaries is hardly your area, isn't that right, Sherlock?"

Mycroft glanced at his brother who had taken to lying on the sofa facing away from the rest of the world again. Sherlock didn't respond. John realized that Mycroft had a point, though. Sherlock had a tendency to not exactly leave the nicest of first impressions on people and with his deductions and lack of self control… John briefly shuddered at what other international affairs Sherlock could uncover if he came in contact with leaders from other countries.

Mycroft stood and bade his farewell, leaving John quite puzzles and concerned.

He had a bad feeling about all of it. Something about it all wasn't adding up. Who could steal that blue diamond? How had they done it? What were they going to do with it? Was this linked to Moriarty? Were they in danger now?

The questions rolled through John's head and he feared that he was becoming slightly paranoid about it all. He turned on some lights in the flat, as it was growing dark outside and put the kettle on, hoping that some telly and tea might distract him from his racing thoughts.

Just as he sat down with his tea, Sherlock sat up and ruffled his hair.

"John." Sherlock said.

"Hmm?"

"You still have your gun hiding in the trick drawer in the end table?"

John realized it was foolish of him to think that Sherlock didn't know that.

"Yes. Why?"

"I think you should take it upstairs with you when you sleep. Keep it close by. Just in case."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"There's something not right about this John. It's strictly intuition. But, as I've said, intuitions are not to be ignored. They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend."

"So you've got a bad feeling about this, too?"

"Yes."

"Do you think we should warn Mrs. Hudson?" John asked.

"I think that it would be wise if we encouraged her to visit her sister this week."

"Right." John said.


	9. Dawn Wadsworth

**Author's Note: Things are about to get twisted everybody. This chapter and the chapter to come are loosely based off of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's chapter called "The Copper Beeches" and will tie in nicely with the Blue Diamond Affair. You'll see how it all ties together in a couple chapters. Hang in there!**

The following evening, John and Sherlock were lounging in their living room, Mrs. Hudson having gone to her sister's. Sherlock was locked in his mind palace, trying to sort out the mystery of the blue diamond and John was staring at the small blinking line on his computer screen that was waiting for him to input commands to type words on his blog.

The silence was broken when the doorbell rang.

John glanced at Sherlock whose eyes had flashed open. Rising from his chair, he went to the window to see whomever it was that had rung the doorbell.

 _Woman, early 20s, single, no children, recently moved here from America…_

It was hard for him to deduce much about her from far away, but he further deduced that she wasn't an immediate threat and thankfully, this was not about an unfaithful partner. Perhaps she was indeed, a client.

Without a word to John, Sherlock turned from the window and bounded down the stairs to greet the woman at the door. He led her up the stairs and beckoned her inside and invited her to sit in the chair that John pulled up for her. John gave Sherlock a look of concern and wariness. _Should we trust her? Remember what happened the last time…_ his face said.

Ignoring him, Sherlock quietly closed the curtains and finally looked upon the young woman sitting in their flat. His eyes travelled up and down her body ravenously, though not in lust. No, this was investigation, deduction, and probability. This was the game.

Body posture revealed much about a person's intent. It could reveal a deception or a person's level of comfort with regards to a certain topic of conversation, which of course, with the right questions, could lead to the answer one was looking for.

 _The young woman was clearly uncomfortable, though she was definitely trying to hide it. Her legs gave her away though – they were crossed, right over left, an oddity as over 70% of people typically cross their legs left over right. So, definitely closed off and uncomfortable, perhaps she's just shy… no, she's nervous. Look at her hands. They are clenched in her lap indicating a form of self-restraint, most likely restraining a negative emotion, in this case anxiety. She bites her nails. They are short, but uneven and not manicured – another symptom of anxiety. So, not just anxiety about this meeting, this is long-term anxiety, perhaps an anxiety disorder._

The deductions flowed freely through his head at lightning speed, all of the data coming at him and painting a picture about this woman in only seconds.

 _Now, onto her clothes. She is dressed in a black, knee-length skirt that has been hemmed once, but there are stitches on the left thigh that are ripping – she's worn this skirt frequently, but not as of late. You can tell by the fact that the black pumps she is wearing are causing blisters on her heels. So, she's not accustomed to wearing this outfit. She looks professional. She's put in effort for this meeting, or perhaps is coming from a meeting where she desired to look professional. Perhaps a job interview?_

 _No that can't be right, look at her hair. She has short, asymmetrical brown hair. It's short like that for utilitarian purposes. If she were a professional, or were desiring to be one, she would've done more with her hair._

 _So, a young woman in her early 20s, recently moved to London from America, accustomed to a more casual wardrobe… perhaps she is a nanny. She keeps her hair short so that children don't pull it. If she were a teacher, it is probable that she'd be more comfortable in professional attire, so definitely a nanny, not a teacher._

"Erhm… Sherlock?" John asked pulling Sherlock from his deductions.

Sherlock took his eyes from the young woman and glanced at John.

"Right." Sherlock said. "Sorry. Hello Miss…"

"D-Dawn. Dawn Wadsworth. You can just call me Dawn." The woman said, pushing her glasses up onto her nose. _Definitely a nervous tick…_

An awkward pause occurred while Sherlock's brain took off on another tangent.

"Erhm… right. Dawn. Could you tell us what brought you here tonight?" John asked, pulling out his legal pad and pen from the drawer next to his chair.

"Well. You see, I recently moved here from the United States… Pennsylvania to be exact. I originally came for school, I was studying theatre, but then I dropped out. It just wasn't the right thing for me. Anyways, I decided to stay in London and work as a nanny, taking care of other people's kids all day. A very well paying family recently hired me who have a little boy. He's spoiled rotten and is rude. I can hardly stand him, but at the rate they are paying me, it's worth it. But…"

She paused, wringing her hands in her lap and trying to slow her breathing.

"But?" Sherlock gently pressed.

"But this family, they ask me to do such strange things." The woman stopped and looked down for a moment.

John piped up, "Whatever it is, we are here to listen if you want to tell us. But you don't have to say what they made you do."

"No, no, it's nothing like that." The woman's head shot up when she realized the implications of what was said. "And I do, I have to tell you what they made me do."

"Alright." Said John, leaning back in his chair.

As if mustering up her courage to continue, Dawn sat a little straighter in her seat.

"They requested, before I was hired, that I cut my hair like this. I don't know why, and I initially had refused the request. Who are they to tell me to cut my hair? But the money, Mr. Holmes… so I did it. I got it chopped just as in this picture they sent me on my phone."

She took a moment to pull up a photo on her phone screen and handed it to Sherlock. It appeared to be just a stock photo of a woman with short hair off of the Internet.

"But that's not all they made me do. Sometimes, they ask me to wear a blue dress. It's a very casual dress, but it fits me perfectly. It has long sleeves and it goes just past my knees and is quite soft. The man and the woman, they ask me to change into this dress, sit in front of the window, and read to the three of them. I'll read Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings or other fantasy novels. It's so odd."

"This man and woman" Sherlock interrupted," they are an older couple?"

"I'd say in their mid-fifties." Replied Dawn.

"Describe them. Don't leave any details out." Sherlock ordered.

"Well, the woman is short and thin. She has long brown hair, a little lighter than mine, of course, hers is graying a bit at the roots. She dyes it a lot. She wears lots of makeup and dresses to the nines every day. I don't know what she does for work… she's locked away in another part of the house all day, I'm assuming in her office, working. Anyways, she always looks impeccable. And the man, well he's quite similar. He dresses in suits everyday only he goes out for work. I think he does something with accounting and money. I'm not entirely sure. Whenever he comes home he goes straight upstairs to his wife in her office, I guess, and they come down together about an hour later and then I go home for the evening."

"This is superb, Dawn. Quite superb. You are very astute in your observations." Sherlock noted.

John looked at him in shock.

"Tell me more about the house, Dawn. This upstairs part, have you ever gone up there?" Sherlock asked.

"No. The house is very large and has recently been renovated downstairs. I have never gone upstairs because I have never had cause to. The boy's room is downstairs as is the kitchen and his play area and of course, bathrooms. I assume that just a couple more bedrooms, bathrooms, and perhaps an office exist upstairs."

Dawn explained.

"The window by which you sit to read, is that a rear facing window?" Sherlock continued.

"The window is in the playroom which overlooks the driveway that leads up to the house. The house is just on the outskirts of London and is up on a bit of a little hill, so the window looks down on the street below. Once while I was reading, a man stopped and looked at the window, but the husband quickly closed the curtain. It was quite impertinent if you ask me."

"Marvelous." Sherlock commented.

"Really?" John said, unbelieving.

"Quite so." Remarked Sherlock.

"Dawn, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I fear that you are in very real danger there at that house."

"What? Danger? What kind of danger?" Dawn said, becoming quite anxious.

"I can't quite be certain but I can assure you, we will figure it out." Sherlock said, "Can you complete a few tasks for us? I should like to go to this house myself and see what this family is hiding."

"Erhm, sure, I guess. If I'm in danger, shouldn't I quit? Or go to the police?" she asked.

"No, no, we don't have any evidence yet. Everything is circumstantial right now. And I fear that if you quit now, your very life will be in danger." Sherlock responded. "Now listen very carefully. Is there any time in the near future where the man and woman will both be out of the house?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. There is a charity fundraiser that they will both be attending on Friday night. It should last well into the evening, perhaps even early morning." Dawn offered.

"Perfect. And when does the boy typically fall asleep?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I try to get him down by eight, but he usually isn't asleep until nine."

"That'll do just fine. Dawn, all you have to do is text me when the boy is asleep and insure that everyone is out of the house. Then you shall allow John and myself to enter the home and we will take a look around and get to the bottom of this. Can you do that, Dawn?" Sherlock asked.

"I hope so!" Dawn said, seeming quite flustered.

"Listen to me Dawn, and this is of the utmost importance. You can let no one know that you were here. Do not write it down, do not tell anybody, and you cannot act out of sorts in the coming days. Do you understand?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward and looking sternly at the frightened woman.

Dawn seemed to be fighting off tears and was trying to calm herself with deep breathing. She nodded her head.

"Alright then. John, perhaps Ms. Wadworth would like a cup of tea before venturing back to her apartment this evening?" Sherlock said.

"Right. Yeah. I can get that…" John muttered and walked to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

Sherlock sat in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin and deep in thought. He didn't hear John maintain a casual conversation with Dawn. He didn't hear John ask her about her background in theatre or why she liked London so much. He was so focused on the facts that he didn't hear Dawn leave, or John say he was going to bed. He sat thinking and thinking for hours.


	10. The Diamond Returns

Sherlock prepared for Friday night by gathering as much information as he could about the family that Dawn was staying with. He asked members of his homeless network to watch their movements and looked up what he could on the Internet.

Dawn had been as thorough as she could have been. The family kept to themselves.

But there was a detail that Sherlock knew was missing, and he had to find it before Friday.

John was wary about all of it. He didn't trust anyone and he certainly didn't think it was safe to go gallivanting through someone else's house when they didn't even know what they were looking for. John was apprehensive about voicing his concerns for fear of angering Sherlock. But, John pointed out, they don't know what they're even looking for at the house, so why do they have to go?

He finished making his lunch in the kitchen and brought it over to the sitting room, where he sat in his chair across from Sherlock, who was busy on his computer.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

No answer.

"Sherlock?" He asked in a louder voice.

No response.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted.

Sherlock responded with "Hmm," barely a grunt and a meager acknowledgment.

"Sherlock, what exactly is it that we are looking for at this house on Friday? Why do you think Dawn is in so much danger?"

Still clacking away on his computer he responded, "It's mostly intuition. If I had a sister, I wouldn't let her work at that house."

"Yes, but why? I mean, what exactly are we looking for here on Friday?" pressed John.

"It's not a 'what' John, but 'who'." Just then, Sherlock whipped his computer screen around and showed a photo of a young woman with short, asymmetrical brown hair with a smile plastered on her face.

"Isn't that Dawn?" John asked, squinting a bit at the screen.

"Here." Sherlock handed the laptop over so John could see.

While the woman in the picture had a strong resemblance to Dawn, the woman was not Dawn at all. Here lips weren't as full, cheekbones not as pronounced… her teeth structure was slightly different and her hair wasn't exactly the same. John scrolled a bit more.

A man named Stephen Marbel had posted the photo on his Facebook page. Looking through the man's history, John found that Stephen and this young woman, Erica, were in a serious relationship, engaged to be married, even. That is, until about 2 months ago. The man changed his profile picture and posted sappy statuses and song lyrics, which, to John, was indicative of a break up. But the most recent photo of Erica was posted with a "Missing" caption above it. In the man's post, he detailed how he believed that Erica had gone missing. He couldn't understand why she would dump him so suddenly and out of the blue and why she won't contact him any more. They were best friends, lovers; why would she leave him so suddenly? He said the police have no reason to suspect that she has gone missing, as the parents had been contacted and Erica was located. But, he was firm in his belief that she was in some sort of danger.

"So, who is Erica?" John asked.

"Erica is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bytella, the couple that Dawn Wadsworth is working for."

A dark idea started forming in John's head.

"If Erica is their daughter, then why didn't Dawn mention her?"

"That's precisely the question I asked myself. We have all the information, now, though. The answer is quite more disturbing than I anticipated." Sherlock looked off at the wall for a moment lost in thought.

"You think that Dawn is filling in for Erica? Where could Erica be then? You don't think her parents could've…."

"I don't know. That's why we have to search that house on Friday. I think the parents are keeping Erica hidden away upstairs. I don't know why, though… perhaps her engagement to this Stephen Marbel? Dawn mentioned when she sat at the window a man walked by and looked at her… what if that was Stephen looking for Erica?"

"You think the parents are having Dawn dress and look like Erica to cover up for whatever they're doing to her?"

"I believe so. Why else would she be asked to wear her hair a specific way and dress a certain way? They look so similar…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as he turned the computer screen back to himself and gazed at the picture of Erica.

"Sherlock, I don't think we should wait until Friday on this. That's two days away. If Erica's alive, we need to get her out of there as soon as possible. We should call Lestrade."

"Yes. I've been considering this as well. Perhaps it is our best option based on this information. I'll call him now."

Sherlock made the call to Lestrade and they all decided that the next morning, Thursday morning, while Mr. Bytella was at work, would be the best time to look for Erica. Lestrade got a warrant late on Wednesday night after the information he received from Sherlock.

On Thursday morning, prior to searching the Bytella's home, John dressed and got ready at 221 B Baker Street, feeling sick to his stomach. He didn't like this case. There were so many unknowns. He had practically forgotten the blue diamond affair, having been so caught up in Dawn and Erica and the Bytella's. His primary concern was for Erica. Dawn would be at the house on Thursday, but John didn't think the mother or little boy posed much of a threat to her. Sherlock had warned her on Wednesday night about their plan for Thursday morning, without revealing too much information about why they were doing it.

And so it was that at 10AM, at least four policemen, including Donovan, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John, all showed up at the Bytella's home on Thursday. As they all were approaching the door, the mother opened it up and called out,

"What's this all about, then? Can I help you?"

Lestrade responded, "Mrs. Bytella, we have a warrant to search your home."

"A warrant?" she asked, as they all stepped up onto the porch, "For what?"

Without answering Sherlock stepped by the woman and headed straight up the stairs, with Lestrade and John following close behind. Donovan stayed downstairs with the three other policemen, Dawn, and the little boy, who had been cluelessly playing with Legos in the playroom off the main entrance.

Once up the stairs, Sherlock noted that this part of the house had not been renovated. The wallpaper was old and peeling in spots, it was drafty, and the old wooden floors creaked loudly under his feet. It was such a contrast to the lower level that had been renovated to look modern and updated.

Sherlock walked down a long hallway filled with open doors that led to various bedrooms and bathrooms. There was one door at the very end of the hallway, however, that remained shut. Ignoring all other rooms, Sherlock immediately tried opening the last, closed door in the hallway, only to find it locked. He pressed his ear to the door and called out,

"Hello? Is anybody in there?"

There was no answer, but Sherlock took out his lock picking tools from his pocket and had the door unlocked within seconds. Gently pushing the door open, Sherlock slowly entered the dusty, drafty room, empty of any furniture, except for a bedframe and mattress in the center of the room. The windows had been covered by black out curtains, the only light filtering in from the hallway.

Sherlock went to the closest window to his right and pulled open one of the curtains allowing light to stream into the room and reveal the body of a girl lying on the mattress, handcuffed to the bedframe. She wore only thin shorts and tank top, with no sheets or blanket to help her stay warm in the chilly room. The room reeked of urine and feces.

John went to the girl's side immediately to feel for a pulse. Lestrade trailed behind, grimacing. It was evident by the bruises on the girls face and body and the dried blood on the mattress that she had been beaten repeatedly and over a course of several weeks. Sherlock started to explore the room further, looking for weapons, clues, anything to explain this situation further. He glanced under the bedframe and found a storage container filled with a short wooden paddle, a belt, another set of handcuffs, zipties, and a hammer.

Sherlock pointed to the container while looking at Greg, who was on the phone calling an ambulance and a forensic team to his location. He contacted another detective at the Yard to go and arrest Mr. Bytella for his involvement in this case.

Greg nodded, glancing at it.

John piped up, saying, "She's alive. Barely. She's severely dehydrated and malnourished. She's got a few cracked ribs, her right ankle has been shattered, and some of her fingers are broken." He tried to gently wake Erica by gently tapping her face and calling her name. A low moan was his only response.

"I'm worried about head trauma as well. It doesn't appear that she has any skull fractures, but I can't know that for sure. The bruises on her face tell me that she may have a concussion, too." John continued.

Sherlock was still looking around the room, examining, picturing everything that happened in this room, though it be gruesome. It wasn't adding up. Why had these parents tortured and hid their daughter this way? What were they thinking? What was their motive?

As he started pacing around the room, Sherlock froze when a particular floorboard protested and creaked beneath his weight. It was a squeaky creak, and the board shifted a bit beneath him. Sherlock bent down and used his fingers to pry up the board. To his surprise, he was able to reach under the floorboard and pick up a dusty, velvet jewelry box used to hold or display a necklace or bracelet. He opened up the box and to his surprise, a blue, glittering diamond shone back at him.

"John." Sherlock said, unable to move.

"Yeah?" John responded, walking up behind him. He froze when he saw what was in Sherlock's hands.

"What?" Lestrade said as he hung up his phone.

Just then, paramedics entered the room and Lestrade directed them to the girl on the bed, answering some basic questions. The forensic team arrived at about that time as well, but Lestrade kept them out while the paramedics worked.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John were transfixed with the sight of the blue diamond.

"How did that get here?" asked John.

"I have no idea." Sherlock responded.

"What are we going to do with it?" asked John.

"I have no idea." Sherlock repeated.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket. The number was unrecognized, but something compelled him to answer it anyways.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

A deep voice, distorted by a voice changer responded with,

"Did you miss me?"


	11. The End

There was a long pause as Sherlock's brain short-circuited for a second. Possibilities and probability all raced through his thoughts as he attempted to deduce whom the person on the other side of the phone could be. He put the phone on speaker. Letting out a small laugh, he casually responded,

"I'm afraid I don't know with whom I am speaking."

The voice on the other line crackled and responded, "You know who I am. Moriarty!"

Sherlock huffed out another laugh again. "Nice try."

The mystery person on the other end made a gruff, frustrated sigh.

"I know where you are. You can't hide from me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced at John. "I didn't plan to hide from you. If you know where I am, why don't you just come say 'hello' and we'll have a proper chat? Maybe we could have tea and biscuits, too!"

Sarcasm dripped from every word Sherlock spoke. He was having none of this nonsense.

"Aren't you curious? You can't see it yet, can you? How it all ties together…. You will soon enough, but it doesn't seem like you're interested in answers," drawled the voice on the phone.

"Oh, so you've solved the case, then? Or you're the person we should be arresting for organizing this vicious crime?" Sherlock spat the words out.

There was momentary silence.

"Oh, come on, off you go. Show us how clever you are. Tell us how it all fits together," Sherlock instigated.

The distorted voice on the phone responded loudly, as if the person was shouting.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Wouldn't even have to lift a finger! Well, too bad! I'm going to get you, Sherlock. Moriarty told me all about you before he died."

"He did have a bit of an obsession, didn't he?" Sherlock commented.

"Shut up. Just, shut up an listen!" the distorted voice was clearly growing agitated.

Sherlock didn't respond.

The voice on the other end began talking quickly, explaining the situation,

"That diamond was placed there by Erica's stupid boyfriend. He works at the place where the diamond was being held and he stole it. He decided to keep it for himself, the greedy little bastard, instead of selling it off to one of the many countries and groups that are after the bloody thing. Well, everything went to shit when Erica and her parents found the diamond. Erica wanted to call the police, report it and return it. Her parents had another idea. They were going to keep the diamond for themselves and sell it. Maybe they'd fix up the rest of their house. Maybe they'd sell the whole damn house and move elsewhere.

They threatened Erica's boyfriend and used the information about him stealing the diamond originally as blackmail. Erica wanted no part of it, so, the parents kept her up in this little room and found a little replacement for her to keep the boyfriend believing she was just fine and going right along with her parent's little scheme.

I didn't have anything to do with it."

"And who are you, exactly?" Sherlock pressed.

"I'm the man who's going to kill you." Responded the voice.

"Actually, I think I know exactly who you are, Stephen…" Sherlock proclaimed.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. It lasted a bit too long before the man exclaimed,

"I don't know who Stephen is."

"Oh, don't play stupid, Stephen. Since you know so much about the case, you have to know that Erica's boyfriend's name is Stephen Marbel. You very deliberately didn't mention his name in your explanation, almost as if you didn't want to draw attention to the thief. Also, who else would know all the facts about this case? Now you're calling me and threatening me, with information anyone could have gotten from the papers, because I have the diamond you stole. And, since you're apparently watching us," Sherlock walked over to the window that was facing the front of the house that he opened upon initially entering the room, "you can see me looking at you right…now." Sherlock peered through the window and finally found what he was looking for. He waved Lestrade over to the window and pointed towards a tall tree that was next to the house.

Balancing precariously in the tree was a man holding a cell phone to his ear, binoculars draped around his neck, desperately trying to see through the window to the activity inside the house. Sherlock gave the man a little wave and Lestrade left the room to capture Stephen Marbel, the man in the tree.

"Thank you for your confession, Mr. Marbel." Sherlock said, hanging up the phone.

John, who had been listening quietly through the entire phone call, now piped up, walking over to the window to watch as the police dragged Stephen Marbel out of the tree and finished arresting Erica's mother downstairs.

"That was totally ridiculous," commented John.

"Indeed…" Sherlock said.

"So, what are we going to do with the diamond?" John asked.

Just then, a sleek, black car pulled up in front of the house and an impeccably clad man with a thin, black umbrella climbed out, heading for the house.

"I suppose Mycroft will be wanting it," responded Sherlock.

"Yes. How are you feeling about that?"

"I'm not going to keep it from him. I think he'll return it to Saudi Arabia."

"Yes, but, what about all that we said before… you know, about it 'casting a shadow of doubt on the British government' and all that…"

"I think we're past all that now. He'll say that the diamond was unexpectedly recovered on a mission. There'll be paperwork and photographs and evidence that he'll procure."

"Right…" John nodded, "But what about all that about 'a contingency plan' and Moriarty coming after you?"

Sherlock shrugged and sighed. "Unfortunately, I don't think that we've seen the last of Jim Moriarty. But this wasn't it. No. I'm sure he's got something much bigger planned."

 **THE END**

 **Author's note:**

 **Ok. I am really disappointed in how this story turned out. I may return to this at a later date and revisit it, because I'm not pleased with it at all. Sorry if it isn't everything you all were hoping it would be. Maybe my next story will be better. Thanks for reading!**


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